Updated: Jan 8, 2019
In times of loss
When we find no words to speak of anything
When the narrative arcs we spun for our lives are unthreaded
Suddenly — senselessly.
And all that is left is that
We are here
And it hurts
And that being here has always been born with some resentment.
That is when the body
It breaths in spite of us
It draws us to drink a glass of water and now
We must fetch the glass and
fill it and
rinse it and
before we know it we are doing things again.
The momentum of our bodies
which was always there
Takes lead of our lives.
'You are the same stuff as the tree
whose leaves, despite it, must green
whose fruit must rot.
And isn't it a relief that at least that was one thing you didn't have to decide.
The body cannot choose to deny itself as we do.
It cannot pretend it is not mortal
or called to touch.
Neither can you
When the world is flung open and the pretence is
Stay there in that place.
I dare you.